


Nightingale

by KamikazeSoundSociety



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seriously I can't say it more ways this is just straight-up FLUFF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/pseuds/KamikazeSoundSociety
Summary: Mr Graves no longer trusts himself, Credence knows. He would never be so undignified as to startle like a frightened cat, but Credence sees the way he grips his wand inside his coat when he apparates, how his brows draw down over his dark eyes as he reads the wards every time they come back from an errand, how he favours his left leg over his right when he’s tired. Credence silently brings him pain potions, sometimes, in the evenings when his face is drawn and he won’t stop rubbing his thigh, the tremor in his jaw like the anxious flutter of a butterfly's wings.But Credence trusts him. Credence would trust him with his very soul. This man who lies asleep before him is the strongest person Credence has met. He did not buckle beneath Grindelwald’s imprisonment. Percival Graves is a man who would be loyal and good and true until his very last breath.Credence would trust him with his heart.





	Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 15 for the kiss ask meme, asked by [amarynthian-fortress](https://amarynthian-fortress.tumblr.com/) over on [my tumblr](https://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/).

**15:** a gentle “I love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss.

* * *

 

When Credence wakes up at two thirty in the morning, he doesn’t slide from the bed to his knees to pray as he has every night before when the nightmares have woken him, hunched over, holding himself like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart as tears and cold sweat slide down his face. His wooden rosary beads stay tucked away inside his bedside table. His Bible remains unopened on the writing-desk. 

Instead, he thinks about what Mr Graves said to him yesterday. _You don’t need to suffer alone anymore._ He doesn’t think he’s quite brave enough to go and knock on Mr Graves’ bedroom door, but he’s been plied with enough cups of tea that he thinks he’d be able to make one for himself. When his heart is no longer threatening to pound out of his chest, Credence wobbles out of his room on unsteady legs. 

The living room is still lit by the dying embers of the fire in the grate, bathing the room in a soft and unholy glow. He doesn’t know the spells to make the kettle boil itself or to make the tea brew in mid-air, but he finds comfort in fetching the cup from the draining board and filling the kettle from the sink. Mindful of the late hour, the kettle doesn’t shriek when it’s boiled; instead, it hisses at him – _“Hey, you, I’m ready over here, hurry up!”_  

“Thank you,” Credence whispers back, swirling his spoon through his cup. He burns his tongue when he takes a sip, but it settles in his stomach, warming him from the inside out. He’s clutching the hot tea between his cold palms when he returns to the living room, planning to curl up on the sofa with his Magical History textbook, only to nearly lose his grip on it in fright. 

Stretched out on the sofa lies Mr Graves, haphazard piles of crumpled reports and letters sitting on his chest and scattered to the floor. Credence hadn’t seen him earlier, he’d been half-asleep still. His hair has fallen out of its usual strict pomaded style and long strands of it frame his face like a halo. One hand is twisted up in a loose fist beside his head; the other lies splayed over his hip. 

Credence stumbles back, hitting the wall with a soft _thump_ that makes the faint line between Mr Graves’ eyes deepen. He holds his breath, pressed along the wall until the line smooths out again and Mr Graves turns his head, huffing a grumpy little sigh. It sounds almost exactly like he might open his eyes and snap something in an annoyed tone. _Goldstein,_ he’ll bark, _where’s your report on yesterday’s Section 7B on 44 th Avenue?_ 

Even in sleep, his guardian looks so wary it hurts Credence to look at. He has the sense he’s peeking in at something very private. There a certain tenseness about the line of his shoulders, a taut power curled in the expanse of his chest, something about the corded muscles of his forearms that suggest that he could spring from the sofa and into action at any moment, wand whirling and spitting out half a dozen curses before his attacker could even blink. 

Credence creeps closer, cup of tea quite forgotten on the table. He skirts around the dining table, rolling his bare feet over the wooden floor toe-to-heel, outside-to-arch, his footsteps entirely silent. 

Mr Graves wouldn’t attack Credence, of course. If he were to wake up now, fury and fear would probably swirl in his eyes before blunt recognition took over and his face would relax, the anxious line of his lips drooping, shoulders dropping. He’d sit up, rubbing his eyes blearily. _Later than I thought,_ he might say drily, trying to hide his weariness. Credence is the only one with the privilege to see him this way, to see what he looks like in those bare instants between opening his eyes and waking up.

 It’s a strange, sad sort of intimacy, but Credence treasures it all the same. 

He lives for these little moments. In the mornings he wakes up as the sun rises, ready to greet Mr Graves with a cup of coffee in the kitchen. If he’s very lucky, he might see Mr Graves emerge from his bedroom in his pyjamas. Once, Credence had seen him leave the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and he’d tripped over his own feet, heart seizing inside his chest. The memory of his guardian framed in billowing clouds of steam, freshly shaved and hair not yet combed back for the day, is one that haunts him in the long hours of the afternoon when Magical History fails to grip his interest. 

Credence is not one given to unnecessary words, and neither is Mr Graves. They suit each other well in this regard. They dance around each other, silent, slow, each move unpredicted and unpredictable. Mr Graves’ fingers brushing Credence’s shoulder as he reads his textbooks. Credence making eye contact as he drinks his coffee each morning (he can’t hold it for very long, and he _knows_ he’s blushing the most unfortunate shade of pink, but he likes the way Mr Graves’ eyes widen ever so slightly as he drinks his coffee deep). Mr Graves correcting his posture as he practices his Charms, one hand wrapped around the back of his hip and the other pressing fingertips soft into his sternum, forcing him to straighten, leaning into that warm contact. Soft words of praise that make Credence preen, although vanity is a sin, but he can’t help the smile tucked away in the corners of his mouth when Mr Graves approves of the way he stands when he casts a spell. 

Every touch, every look, makes something inside Credence’s chest ache. It is like hunger, a terrible and painful black void that threatens to consume him whole, and all Credence wants is _more_. Selfish, selfish, he knows, but all he wants is Mr Graves to look at him like that all the time, the brushes of fingers against his wrist to last longer, to feel the whole press of his hand. 

It will never happen. So Credence cherishes each threadbare moment. Mr Graves permitting Credence to see him in those quiet moments when his guard is down as much as it ever will be is enough for him. Coffee in the mornings; steam on the bathroom mirror; a gentle hand on the nape of his neck, correcting, before it moves away and the skin prickles, cold. 

He kneels before his guardian, watching him for any signs of wakefulness. He reaches out, trembling, to ghost his hand along the starched fabric of Mr Graves’ shirt, feeling the heat radiating from him as much as he feels the fire warming his back. His heart is fluttering in his chest, a wounded bird. He wishes Mr Graves would open his eyes and reach out to him, palm heavy on his ribs, a burning echo inside his chest. 

Mr Graves no longer trusts himself, Credence knows. He would never be so undignified as to startle like a frightened cat, but Credence sees the way he grips his wand inside his coat when he apparates, how his brows draw down over his dark eyes as he reads the wards every time they come back from an errand, how he favours his left leg over his right when he’s tired. Credence silently brings him pain potions, sometimes, in the evenings when his face is drawn and he won’t stop rubbing his thigh, the tremor in his jaw like the anxious flutter of a butterfly's wings. 

But Credence trusts him. Credence would trust him with his very soul. This man who lies asleep before him is the strongest person Credence has met. He did not buckle beneath Grindelwald’s imprisonment. Percival Graves is a man who would be loyal and good and true until his very last breath. 

Credence would trust him with his heart. 

Slowly, slowly, Credence brings his face down, breathing fanning over Mr Graves’ temple. He closes his eyes, like he’s praying. This is a prayer, of sorts. “I – I,” he says, so quietly it’s only his lips moving, unsure, uncertain, “I wish I were brave enough to tell you while you were awake. I wish you had never gone through – everything that happened to you. More than anything, I wish I could heal all your hurts and make it so you could sleep peacefully again. Mister Graves, I think – I love you.”

 And before he can lose his nerve he brushes his lips over his guardian’s, heart pounding in his throat. 

He pulls away, eyes screwed shut. Even without touching his face he can feel his eyes burning, the pulse at his throat turned heavy, making it hard to breathe. He rubs his knuckles angrily over his eyes and leans back. A terrible, traitorous knot has formed inside his chest. 

A strong hand grips the front of his pyjama shirt and Credence opens his eyes, startled. Mr Graves stares straight at him, the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. “Credence,” he says, quietly. 

And Credence can’t help it – he rushes forward with a terrible sob, a hot desperate press of lips and teeth and tears. He’s ruined it, he’s ruined it. Mr Graves will surely shove him away, use his magic to bind him and cast him out to the street, refuse to ever even look at him ever again – 

Only his mouth opens with a gasp, and he’s licking up into Credence’s mouth, kissing him back with just as much unrestrained passion. Credence pushes back hungrily, greedily, revelling in the plush press of his lips made softer by the rasp of his stubble against Credence’s cheek. His hands move from gripping the front of his shirt to slide around to his back, cradling the sharp wings of his shoulder blades, fingers curling into the hollow spaces between each rib. He’s drawing Credence in to him, into the circle of his arms and his embrace, mouth hot on his. Credence wails, overwhelmed, and then Mr Graves is pulling away; but only to press another soft kiss to his lips, soft now, gentle. 

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Credence says, chest still heaving. Tears spill from his eyes, running down his face, and he’s so full of foreign emotion it hurts to breathe. 

“No, no,” Mr Graves murmurs against his cheek. “Don’t apologise, sweet boy, darling, please, I thought – I thought I was dreaming, but I could never dream this. I could never dream you.” 

And then they’re kissing again, consumed. Credence gasps into his mouth, he can’t stop, he can’t stop the words from spilling out, the well of emotion in his chest overflowing, “I love you, I love you, I love you – “

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello at [my tumblr](https://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> The "[my writing](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/tagged/my-writing)" and "[world building](http://kamikazesoundsociety.tumblr.com/tagged/world-building)" tags have all my works. I adore prompts and ideas. Like seriously, send me something and there's a very good chance I'll answer.


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